Here, sweet thing, have a riddle.
Take four parts of original whole honest emotion mixed with four parts not interested. Add a dash of loathing and anxiety. Crack open some ribs and add a smidgen of sexual tension. What do you get?
Let me tell you, children.
The answer is one trash-filled bittersweet not-even-fair story of real.
What's worse, is my heart is hanging from a thread. And the ends are fraying. (And I'm not the only girl who knows this, and you're not the only boy running with scissors. We are two of four I know for sure.)
Do me a favor, burn out before I wake. Save me the restless lifetime of what if. Or fall through bombs of trust and an infrastructure only you built. Come out come out, I say. And be real for me. For just this. I promise, I'd shine.
Youwantme, ordoyounot? I can't play today. You win. You always win, because my ace of hearts is in your hands asshole. And darling, I'm lost. In a deck you hold.
Bake it in cakes for me. And feed me these lines, with spoons you don't clean.
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"Bake it in cakes for me. And feed me these lines, with spoons you don't clean."
ReplyDeleteIt's statements, or thoughts, like these that remind me why you're my best friend (as if I need reminding). Because you feel, and deep down, you're willing to feel the pain to avoid being numb. We'll eat off of dirty spoons, drink out of old hippie jugs, and run through forests to feel, to hurt, to be. Here, we're alive, we're everything, all of the time.